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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742370">Internal Dialogue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ava_now/pseuds/Ava_now'>Ava_now</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Law &amp; Order: SVU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Character Study, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, First Love, Homicide, Homophobia, I hate tagging, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 14:55:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,168</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ava_now/pseuds/Ava_now</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study of Rafael Barba and how Manhattan SVU defined and changed who he is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rafael Barba/Lauren Sullivan, Rafael Barba/Rita Calhoun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Twenty-Five Acts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Each chapter of this fic will take place during a specific episode of SVU, kicking off with 25 Acts.  I'll update tags and characters as needed.  </p><p>As always, thank you for your comments and kudos!  They're awesome!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Captain!” he greeted jovially, extending a hand.  “Take your daughters to work day?”</p><p> </p><p>As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could have shoved them back in.  Both women looked taken aback, and the brunette--her name was Benson--raised one eyebrow toward him. Harris rambled on about his record, which was impressive, if he said so himself.  He tried to pretend what he had said was as clever as it had sounded in his head as he shook each woman’s hand. Benson, the taller brunette, smiled and shook his hand firmly, but the petite blonde, Rollins, looked as if she were giving him the once-over.  He smiled confidently as he shook her hand, pretending her discernment didn’t unnerve him a little. The fact that she was attractive just made it worse, so he shoved that fact out of his head. A few minutes later, he guided the women back to his office to get the basics on the case they were bringing him.</p><p> </p><p>Jocelyn Paley, author of Twenty-Five Acts, was their victim, and he couldn’t have asked for a better case to kick things off in Manhattan.  He’d had a handful of cases in the two weeks he’d been here, but nothing that would catch headlines like this. Besides, this was in his wheelhouse.  He was known for convictions on difficult sex crimes in Brooklyn, and his higher conviction rate in sex crimes was what had made him desirable to Manhattan.  He couldn’t say that he’d read Jocelyn Paley’s book, although he’d joked with his mami after seeing it stacked on her kitchen table. She was reading it for her book group, she’d said, and from what he understood, a LOT of people were doing the same.   As he met with Beson and Rollins, he jotted down notes on the case so far. He could tell his responses to them were different than what they were used to--they seemed surprised that he would ask for certain information and specifications. On his way out that evening, he made sure to pack the notes he’d taken, then swung by a bookstore on the way home to pick up a copy of the masterpiece.  He had some reading to do.</p><p> </p><p>It was time to bring his magic to Manhattan.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t have been a big jump to figure out that Jocelyn wasn’t the author of that book.</p><p> </p><p>First, it struck him as odd that a woman capable of describing the kind of BDSM in <em> 25 Acts </em> had described her own anal rape as “he stuck it in me, but not where I’m used to.”  He’d read the first third of the book the night he brought it home, then put it aside, hopped in the shower, and jacked off.  The book reminded him of a lover he’d had in college, a guy he had a casual relationship with. They had experimented with a variety of kinks.  He had learned that he enjoyed edging and some level of being bound, and that choking was a hard no for him. In certain situations, he liked playing with just a tad bit of pain teasing the pleasure.  And he loved dirty talk, no matter who was doing it. There was something about saying and hearing things that he would never experience outside of sex that turned him on tremendously. Conversely, he hated any kind of denigration of himself or his partner.  He had once stopped them completely when his lover had insulted his blow job. He had said (and still felt) that when somebody gives you a gift, you say thank you and that’s all. When he was a child, his mother and abuela had beaten that into him, and who was he to go against the two smartest women he knew?  No matter the type of present, it was good advice. His lover had backed off and apologized.</p><p> </p><p> The book went farther than he had with that lover, and certainly had gender differences, but he still achieved a pretty satisfying climax remembering his lover inside of him, yanking his hair and telling him how fucking tight he was.  He rarely had time to date these days, never mind build a relationship, so he generally became adept at taking care of his own sexual needs. His mind was focused on building his name in Manhattan. He’d worked hard to get here, and he’d be damned if anything was going to distract him from actualizing his dreams.  When he was in Brooklyn, he had gotten involved with a contracts attorney named Jacob. They were both fresh out of law school, he starting as an ADA and Jacob employed by a private firm. Jacob was sweet and funny and gay. Rafael had never had such a serious relationship with a gay man before. Jacob said he accepted Rafael’s bisexuality, but he grew increasingly paranoid that Rafael was looking for a female lover.  It caused repeated problems in their four year relationship. In the end, Jacob had given Rafael an ultimatum: marriage or move out. Rafael was excited to make the move to Manhattan.</p><p> </p><p>While investigating the Paley case, the detectives had interviewed Jocelyn’s college boyfriend. He admitted their sex life had been rather tame--Rafael wanted to believe that was confirmation that Jocelyn couldn’t have written the book, but he reminded himself that people are capable of having all sorts of fantasies they don’t live out.  Hell, he was guilty of that himself, and on a regular basis, it seemed. But then Amaro, one of the male detectives on the team, had managed to get a confession from a professor who had taught Paley. The professor admitted she had written the book and made a deal with Jocelyn to be the face of the author. He hung up the phone with Amaro, watching his case circle the bowl.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t let this case go yet.  He was too new to Manhattan; too new in establishing his name in this borough.  He’d proven himself in Brooklyn by taking cases other ADA’s shied away from. Cases like this one, he reminded himself grimly.  No matter what, they had to move forward. The case was in the papers and his name was attached to it. There had to be a way to turn this around, and the first step would be to confront Jocelyn with the fact that she had lied.</p><p> </p><p>As she sat in front of him, blue eyes wide and voice shaky, he asked her what in the hell she had been thinking.  He had told her from the beginning that the one thing she held back would be what the defense would clobber them with.  She babbled something about money and college loans and debt. He didn’t care. Everyone had money issues. He’d grown up in one of the poorest projects in the city, so those arguments didn’t phase him much.  He had attached his name to this case and been frank and honest with her from day one, and she’d broken the rules he’d set down. As she began to understand her secret wouldn’t be a secret anymore, she said she didn’t want to continue with the case.  No, he told her. If she chose to do that he would charge her with perjury and her secret would come out anyway. At that point, Jocelyn fled the room, and Benson followed her, for comfort, he supposed.</p><p> </p><p>Rollins, however, seemed to understand he meant what he said and the predicament he was in.  She was standing behind him, arms crossed, and he could smell the light fragrance of her perfume.  He tended to lean toward men in his relationships, but had certainly dated his share of women through the years.  He sensed Rollins was a good detective, driven to prove herself in the same way he was. She was sharp and insightful, and seemed ready to share her observations, but it was clear to him that she held back some, quite likely because of Benson.  Benson had struck him immediately as solid. She knew what she was doing, and wasn’t afraid to voice her opinion. She also was more concerned with victims than she was with justice, he realized as she had followed Jocelyn Paley out of the room.</p><p> </p><p>The case proceeded and he tried to keep his face in check throughout.  Rita Calhoun was the defense attorney and he knew she read him well. She had ever since law school.  They’d gone against each other in mock court, studied together, and slept together with regularity. He reminded himself, though, that he read her just as well, so she was at no bigger benefit than him.</p><p> </p><p>He had warned Jocelyn at the beginning of this process that she wouldn’t like him by the end.  Ultimately, however, it had been his interactions with the defendant, Adam Cain, that had won this case.  “I need to know everything about Adam Cain that you know,” he had asked each of the squad the night before cross.  The words from the team came quickly: self-centered, obnoxious, intelligent, full of himself, unable to take in other points of view.  Benson summed it up perfectly, though: narcissistic. The man was the embodiment of narcissism. And now that he knew it, he needed to bait him.</p><p> </p><p>When they had been in law school, Rita Calhoun had once made him a bet that she’d blow him if he could get a judge in mock court to allow him to re-enact the crime, right there in the courtroom.  They were lying in her bed naked, catching their breath after an afternoon lovemaking session. He had laughed out loud at her wager before heartily agreeing to it, and that he’d give her apartment a spring cleaning if he lost.  He had ended up splitting his spring break that year between studying, scrubbing her floors, and nursing his bruised ego. Rita had teased him then, telling him he was a good sport and blowing him anyway. But there was no way in hell he was going to pass the opportunity to do a reenactment now with Rita at the defense table.  He had something to prove, after all.</p><p> </p><p>And when Adam Cain had taken the bait and tightened the belt--a gift for Christmas from his mom a few years ago--he wondered if everyone in the court could see his grin despite the tightening around his windpipe.</p><p> </p><p>He’d made his point, and he knew it.  And when the jury returned and announced his victory, he couldn’t help but glance back at the squad, sitting behind him.  Benson gave him a slight nod, and he knew that she was realizing he was a meaningful contributor to the team too. He nodded back.</p><p> </p><p>When he got home that night, he poured himself a congratulatory scotch, toed off his shoes, and flipped open the paper.  The writeup of the case was relatively accurate. He was pleased to see it was on the front page, even if it was further down.</p><p> </p><p>His phone buzzed.</p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Mami:  </em> </b> <em> I saw you on the news.  Congratulations on the verdict!  I’m sure Ms. Paley will sleep better tonight. </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>RB: </em> </b> <em>  I’m sure she will.  Did you like the tie? </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Mami: </em> </b> <em>  Loved it.  You were right after all--it was a good match for that suit. </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>RB: </em> </b> <em>  See?  I could have gone into fashion.   </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Mami: </em> </b> <em>  God forbid, mijo.  You’ve got a respectable job.  Don’t take it for granted. </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>RB:</em> </b> <em>   I don’t, Mami.  You know that. </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Mami:  </em> </b> <em> I know your new address.   </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>RB:  </em> </b> <em> And you know all the work I put in to get here.  </em></p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Mami:  </em> </b> <em> Fair enough. </em></p><p> </p><p>She had asked about his dinner then, and he made up a story about picking up takeout on his way home so she wouldn’t worry.</p><p> </p><p>The new condo had been a financial reach.  Mami had thought it was “too showy”. He didn’t dare tell her that most of his colleagues lived in places far more impressive.  But it was in a good zip code, and it was his, even if he didn’t have the fancy furnishings to go into it yet. After he finished texting, he headed back to his room, showered, and pulled on some old Harvard sweats and a threadbare tee-shirt.  Settling into bed, he picked up Jocelyn Paley’s masterpiece and began to read, setting a goal to finish it before he fell asleep.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lessons Learned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Barba spends a bit more time getting to know Benson, and struggles with the idea of closure for victims.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Each chapter is entitled by its episode's name.  If you're looking for season/episode, this one is season 14, episode 8.</p><p>This is a very experimental style of writing for me.  I don't  usually hook episodes that heavily into my writing.  My goal with this is to capture the essence of the episode but focus on other things that weren't in the episode.  So far that's been a lot of backstory, but I'm hoping it will include some newer things pretty soon.</p><p>As always, comments and kudos are so welcome and appreciated!  They really are so encouraging to us writers!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The purpose of the law is to distribute justice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s what Rafael Barba had been taught at Harvard, anyway, despite the fact that Olivia Benson was determined to convince him otherwise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The squad had called him in on a new case having to do with a private school and age-old possible sexual abuse charges.  When he first met with Rollins and Benson, he’d quickly gone through the requirements to charge--where the crimes happened, how long ago, the ages of the victims--and come to the conclusion that they had nothing.  “So why are you here again?” he inquired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rollins asked snarkily, “You ever think about going off of caffeine?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was clever, that one.  He couldn’t help but like her.  He was pretty sure she’d be a hell of a lot of fun in another environment.  As it was, he indicated for them to continue, and Benson launched into the evidence they had thus far.  She had information that in all fairness should be explored more thoroughly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d been in Manhattan for a couple months now, and it had become clear fairly quickly that Benson was the star of the squad.  If he needed more information or wanted to get a thoughtful opinion, she was the one most likely to supply it. He had been surprised to find out that she still kept up with Jocelyn Paley, even though the case had been tried several weeks before.  When he had asked her why, she had raised one eyebrow at him again. “She’s a victim,” she explained as though he were unclear. “She’s going to need support for awhile, and I can give her that.” He was still chewing on that when she had put a hand on his shoulder.  “It was really kind, the way you told her everyone loves to see a comeback. She needed to hear that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose,” he’d acknowledged, shooting her a half smile before moving on to discussing the case at hand.  It seemed with this case there were potential victims multiplying by the day and more he-said, he-said’s happening than he’d ever seen.  He couldn’t blame these guys for not wanting to own up to what happened. It would change their lives, for sure. When he’d been in his first year of law school, a fellow male student had been raped off campus behind a popular gay club.  His name was Mitch Levy. Despite the fact the guy hadn’t done anything wrong, everyone knew about Mitch, and to this day Rafael could vividly recall the last time he had seen him. It had been Ethics class on a Thursday afternoon a few weeks after the assault.  Mitch had shown up for class, no sign of injury besides the still-blackened right eye, and Rafael had found himself staring along with everyone else. At the end of the class period, Mitch left hurriedly and never came back. A few weeks later, Rafael heard he had dropped out.  But even though Mitch wasn’t around anymore, people talked. Everyone talked. Had he been gay? Who was he dating? Was he going to that club regularly? “It figures this gets attention now that it’s happened to a guy,” Rita grumbled to him over cheese fries and study notes. “Women get raped all the time, but do people pay attention?  Of course not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure he wanted this attention,” he started to argue, but seeing the fire in her eyes as she glared back at him, he dropped his argument.  Regardless, life would never be the same for Mitch, at least not around Harvard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rafael knew that there was no way he was going to actually make a case at Manor Hill.  He’d told the detectives in the beginning that schools like this were insular, and he had meant it.  When Benson asked him to accompany her to the school, hoping his presence would shake something loose, he reluctantly agreed to go.  He could use more time working on other cases in his office, but he was willing to do whatever was needed on the off chance something really would pan out here.  And privately, he was interested in gleaning more understanding about why these victims were so important to her.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They drove out to the school on a rainy Thursday morning, Benson behind the wheel while Rafael reviewed his notes.  “What are you doing?” she asked him nearly as soon as he’d pulled out his legal pad. He’d figured she would know. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Reviewing the case,” he answered, clicking the end of his pen.  “I just like for it to be fresh before I go in to speak to anyone.”  He jotted down a few more specifics he’d been thinking about, then asked, “Anything you think I need to know since we talked last?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shook her head.  “Nope. You’re up to date.  You’ve got all the information I have.  Do you have any questions? You know, for clarification?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I think I’m clear.”  He clicked his pen again, closing it.  “So how long have you been doing this? NYPD, I mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched a smile slowly take over her face.  “Awhile,” she said. “About sixteen years.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s impressive.  Was that always what you wanted to do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pretty much.  How about you? I know you came out of Brooklyn, but how long have you been with the DA’s office?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Close to you,” he mused, “about fifteen years.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is awhile.”  She took the street exit they needed and then asked, “What’d you do before moving into sex crimes?  SVU has been around for awhile, but not for that long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed.  “I started in white collar crime.  After a few years I had a couple cases that crossed over into sex crimes--victims who were part of sex trafficking tied into businesses--and somehow ended up finding myself being assigned more and more sex crime cases.”  He watched as she pulled up in front of a large, rolling lawn. A brick mansion sat at the top. “I guess I was fairly good at it, because here I am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Benson shot him a look, mouth pulled into a half grin.  “Here you are,” she echoed, turning the car off. “And here we go, I guess.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He followed her out of the car and up the sidewalk to the impressive entrance.  Rafael couldn’t help but recall his own high school, where windows were boarded up when they were broken and students had to share the assigned books because there weren’t enough to go around.  He doubted these kids had ever had to share a pencil.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As they spoke with the school officials, he couldn’t help but note the confidence with which Benson guided the conversation.  She presented herself as exactly who she was--an experienced, intelligent detective who knew what she was doing. He had worked with a variety of detectives in his years in Brooklyn, and the majority of them were run-of-the-mill guys who did their jobs well enough and went home at the end of the day, leaving the case at the station.  A handful of them over the years had proven to be as driven as he was, and those were the detectives he tried to work with when possible. Benson reminded him of those detectives, willing to go to whatever lengths necessary to achieve the desired ending. However, he wasn’t always sure that he and Benson were aiming for the same result.  He wanted justice, and she wanted...truth? Resolution? Closure?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His presence didn’t seem to bring any more cooperation from the school that day, and as they left, he found himself grumbling the whole way down the hill to the car.  There was nothing he could do here, he told her. All he could see in these cases were men who had broken children inside of them. They needed healing. “I’m not a healer,” he said to her firmly.  She seemed to like to support victims. He was sure she could find some resources for them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had stopped, car door partway open, and stared at him.  “You know something illegal happened here,” she told him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t argue, so he tossed her an eyeroll and climbed in the car.  They drove in silence for several moments until he finally said, “You just toss out whatever’s gonna stick, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorted.  “Well, it wasn’t like that was even hard.  I know you well enough to know you may not see our role in the healing of victims, but you sure as hell do care about the law.  You’re a clever guy, whatever high school you went to, and you’re willing to put it on the line to make sure </span>
</p><p>
  <span> justice is upheld.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had told her there hadn’t been options like Manor Hill for him, growing up.  Those schools only came for the athletes, he had said. Confided, maybe.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she was right.  The law mattered. Sometimes, it was all that mattered.  He turned toward her and grinned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Public high school in the Bronx.  Harvard after that, thankyouverymuch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She whistled, teasing.  “Aren’t we lucky?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through Benson’s continued pushing, more victims came forward, one of them being the son of the school board’s president.  Confronted with the truth of his son’s abuse, he suddenly became available and willing to host an apology event for all past victims.  In an effort to change school culture, he claimed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After a busy day in court, Rafael made his way up to Manor Hill to observe the event.  As he entered, he found both Benson and Amaro standing by the back door. Looking around, he saw dozens of men of various ages seated.  Not a single one of these crimes would be prosecuted. Not a single abuser would spend a day in jail.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t help commenting under his breath about this particular irony, especially when viewing Benson’s self-satisfied smile.  She seemed to be okay with this. He supposed closure was okay if you had to settle with, say, no justice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once he made it back to the city, he settled into his place for the evening.  His mami had filled his freezer again for the week, as she frequently did. He didn’t share that little tidbit with anyone else, lest he seemed incapable of feeding himself.  But the truth was he didn’t have the time nor the inclination to cook, and her food was far more delicious and comforting than most of the takeout he could pick up. Some of it was classic American casserole stuff that she had picked up over the years.  Random stuff like meatloaf or even chicken and rice with those condensed soups that he would have turned a nose up at in any other circumstance; when his mami made it, he devoured it as though he were thirteen again. At least one dish each week seemed to be something a little more modern.  These were his least favorite, because he never knew what to expect. Some of them were amazing, and others were absolutely awful. On those nights, he ended up eating late from the Italian place down the block. But his favorites were the cuban foods his mami and his abuelita used to make throughout his childhood.  There was something so comforting in savoring mouthfuls of arroz con pollo made the traditional way, or frijoles negros. Mami knew all his favorites, and to this day, she always included at least one of them in his freezer meals each week.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew other people would probably assume in some ways he was a momma’s boy.  God knows his father had, and it was something that Miguel Barba had hated about his son.   But it was only he, mami, and abuelita now, and to be honest, he enjoyed seeing his mother regularly.  He was forty now, and hadn’t ended up with any kind of life partner, so what if he enjoyed his family? And Mami enjoyed doing for him.  Perhaps, he thought as he took another bite of chicken, he should consider telling her to hold off on cooking for him. But he knew she took pride in what she did for him, and to be honest, he was grateful.  As he stood over the half-eaten container of chicken on his kitchen counter, his cell phone dinged.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RitaCalhoun:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  So how’s Manhattan treating you this week?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB: </em>
  </b>
  <span> Confusing.  I don’t get the idea of closure with no legal charges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>Sure you do.  It’s called “not guilty”.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB: </em>
  </b>
  <span> Funny.  You’re not helping.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  What are you doing this weekend?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  Is this a joke?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC: </em>
  </b>
  <span> I owe you a bj from your belt trick.  Let me split up your work time. I’ll even come to you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>That’s awfully thoughtful.  Saturday afternoon work for you?  I’ll be here working on question trees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>Perfect.  I’ll send you a time.  And Barba?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>What?</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <b>
    <em>RC:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>Try not to fret too heavily over not filing charges.  The bad guys sometimes win. It’s how I stay in business.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Beautiful Frame</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Rita Calhoun, friends with benefits, and a new pair of suspenders under his kimono.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter references season 14 episode 11 Beautiful Frame.</p><p>There's a bit of smut in this chapter, just a heads up!</p><p>Thank you for kudos and comments!  They often are great motivators on harder writing days!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So,” Rita said, pulling on one of his old Harvard tees, “you just staying in bed all weekend?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sighed and stretched, feeling relaxed and warm all over.  It had been years since they’d done this, but he had to admit there was something worthwhile about the friends with benefits thing.  The fact that he and Rita had the ability to pick up right where they left off only made it more fun.  She’d known immediately he had been goading her with the belt trick in Jocelyn Paley’s trial and had used it as an invitation back into his personal life.  “Maybe,” he replied, rolling onto his side and bending his elbow onto the mattress so he could rest his head in his hand.  “You should stay.  At least until the morning.  I’ll even let you pick what we watch on TV.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could hear her brushing her teeth in the bathroom.  After a moment, she returned, smiling at him.  “Now that’s a deal I might be able to get behind.  I want to catch up on Project Runway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course you do,” he teased as she climbed back into the bed and reached over him for the remote.  “You hungry?  Want to order some takeout?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorted and turned the TV on.  “Barba, I really was hoping you’d improved your game with all that time you spent coupling in Brooklyn.  Didn’t your boyfriend teach you anything sweet and romantic?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nipped her shoulder and slapped her ass.  “Hey, I offered you scotch when you got here.  I’m predictable if nothing else.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” she responded, turning back to him and kissing him, then sliding a hand over his chest and tugging slightly.  “I suppose you are.  Pad thai--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Medium heat, with chicken,” he grinned, reaching for his phone.  At her widened eyes he added, “Maybe I’m not the only one who’s predictable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rita was on top of him, sitting straight, cupping her breasts as she rocked back and forth.  Her hair swung softly in the rhythm with her body and he couldn’t decide which he liked better, the hair thing or the breast thing.  Either way it didn’t matter, he decided.  It was all fantastic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He held onto her hips, urging her to move more quickly.  “You’re never satisfied,” she gasped, giving in to his lead.  “Always have to have your way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He chuckled breathily.  “Of course I do.  It makes me a great attorney.”  He rubbed her hips, then thrust upward.  “Same with you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leaned forward, resting her hands on his shoulders to brace herself and change the angle.  He groaned softly before increasing his speed.  Hearing her sigh, he asked, “Like that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God yes….jesus, Rafael.  You certainly haven’t lost your skills with women.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glanced at her face.  Her eyes were closed and she was flushed.  “Don’t tell my ex that,” he teased softly, running his hands over her back.  “He thought I was cheating.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She laughed at that, a sound that turned into a low moan, and the room was silent for several moments other than the sounds of their bodies meeting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was reminded of their time together in law school, all the nights they had spent with each other rather than being alone.  He didn’t have time to perform so impressively in school and also pursue any kind of relationship, and he knew she was the same.  He’d tried studying with several different people before hitting upon Rita and realizing she was honestly the only one who could keep up with him that he cared to spend time around.  Granted, there were always a few people who seemed slightly ahead of him, and he couldn’t help but wonder why Rita didn’t gravitate toward them.  He’d found out one evening early on when a couple of them spotted her entering the coffeehouse to join him in a study session.  He had prayed in that moment that she hadn’t heard the snide comments about her attractiveness, and she had acted none the wiser at the time.  It was only later that he came to understand that very, very little escaped Rita Calhoun, including what other people thought of her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He flipped her over and she laughed as he entered her again, bracing himself soundly.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled his head down firmly for a kiss.  A few minutes later she cried out and bit his shoulder, and he followed, groaning in pleasure.  It may have been over five years, but his time with Rita Calhoun was still as good as he remembered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t expect this every weekend,” she told him, sipping a cup of coffee on his couch.  “I don’t have time for it, and neither will you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He snorted, then leaned over to kiss her.  He could tell she was humoring him, kissing him back, but he really didn’t care.  He hadn’t been laid in a godawful long time, and right now he felt giddy.  “Understood,” he smiled, before pressing another kiss to her temple.  “I still have the memories.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And your hand,” she added, smirking, as he smacked her teasingly with a pillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she had gathered her things to head out, she stopped and reached into her bag.  “Here,” she said, handing him a bag.  He reached inside and pulled out a beautiful patterned pair of suspenders.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey!” he exclaimed.  “These are fantastic!  Thanks!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.”  She smiled and slung her bag over her shoulder.  “Do me a favor and leave the belts at home from now on, okay?  And any more successful reenactments, you’re on your own.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pam James was really pissing him off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no reason for the Suffolk County DA to be so stubborn with this case.  Even as the evidence mounted against her investigator, Michael Provo, she refused to believe for a moment that Provo was anything but a law-abiding employee.  Rafael was still new enough to the Manhattan office that he needed to play nice, he reminded himself as he snapped on the new suspenders that Rita had given him the weekend previous. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play Pam’s game with her. He could be as guarded handing out information to other ADAs as she had been with him.  A wink and a smile--he could play that game too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s what he told Rollins when she asked later.  “We’re not going to open our kimono,” he said, grinning, opening his jacket to give her a glance at the new suspenders.  A look crossed her face, and he wasn’t sure if she was surprised or impressed, nor if her impression was a reaction to his strategy or his suspenders.  He had the feeling that Rollins liked the strategy of the game he played, and he wondered if there were times she found it exciting like he did.  He couldn’t begin to guess her opinion about his suspenders, though.  She looked to dress about the same as most young women her age, casually anyway, so who knew if she could even appreciate it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew the whole squad had taken note of his clothing choices.  Not that he cared.  He had worked hard to get where he was, hard to own the suits he wore with pride.  So what if his ties were a little more designed, his shirts a little more colorful, his socks a little more patterned?  He liked it that way.  It was a way he could say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t fit in your box </span>
  </em>
  <span>before people tried to put him there.  And if it kept people guessing around him?  All the better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rita knew and understood this about him, and her choice in suspenders proved it.  As he moved throughout the day, his fingers frequently ran over the fine suspender elastic.  He sorted through evidence involving Michael Provo and Jesse Sturgis, trying to establish who did what and how it fit, and each touch brought a smile to his face for so many reasons.  That the suspenders were classy.  That they were unique.  That old friends still understood him.  That sex was a fantastic thing.  And mostly, that he had a plan not to open his figurative kimono.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And later that week, when the kimono was finally fully opened, there was a satisfying feel in his belly as Michael Provo was arrested in front of his former boss, ADA Pam James.  As he and Pam agreed on a legal course of action that included immediate release of Jesse Sturgis.  And as he sat at a seat in a bar across from his office named Forlini’s, typing a text to Rita.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  You should be impressed, I wrapped it up today with the Suffolk County case.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  Always making friends and good impressions, aren’t you?  Sure you don’t want to try the other side?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>No, I think I’m good for now.  I certainly can take a no, but you interested in coming over this weekend?  Saturday, maybe?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  Can’t.  I have a date.  Hold on, take a look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a photo of Rita and a young, athletic, good-looking man, smiling at the beach, and he had to wonder if this guy was around, why’d she waste a weekend with him, Rafael?  This guy couldn’t be a day over thirty, and had the abs to prove it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>It’s off and on with him, nothing serious.  Quit pouting.  I can read your thoughts.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RB:</em>
  </b>
  <span>  I’m not pouting.  I hope you have a fantastic time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>RC:  </em>
  </b>
  <span>And quit being jealous.  I know you want him but he’s not your type.  Straight as an arrow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t help but laugh out loud at that, then picked up his scotch and took a long swig.  To old friends, he thought, then raised his glass again to finish off his drink. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Criminal Hatred</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jeremy Jones' trial causes Barba to reflect a bit on his own sexuality and his life in Brooklyn.  It also provides him an opportunity to spend some time with Detective Benson.</p><p>TRIGGER WARNING: homophobic language and actions</p><p>Based on Season 14, episode 12, Criminal Hatred.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Accompanies season 14, episode 12, Criminal Hatred, of which I own nothing.</p><p>TRIGGERS in this chapter include homophobic language and actions as well as discussion of sexual assault and bullying.</p><p>Thank you so much for your comments and kudos!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Minonna Ephron initially reminded Rafael of Rita Calhoun as a first year law student.</p><p> </p><p>Unfashionable, ill-fitted clothing, unattractive hair, and an insistent, demanding social manner that immediately put everyone around her off, Ephron was the spitting image of Rita when they’d first met in law school.  He supposed that may have been why he assumed Ephron wouldn’t be as competent as she turned out to be.  In his mind, he was preparing to try a case and she was memorizing case law.</p><p> </p><p>Once she cleared up any doubt, Minonna Ephron was proving to be a formidable opponent, but he wasn’t out of tricks yet.  Taking another bite of his dinner, he jotted down notes relevant to the case.  He’d need Carmen to check the case law, but he thought he had a strategy that was going to bury Ephron, but good--never mind her sleaze of a client, Jeremy Jones.  That was going to be icing on the cake.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked up and immediately grinned.  Olivia Benson stood before him in a damp trenchcoat and one eyebrow cocked.  Chuckling, he asked, “Am I that easy to find?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I <em> am </em>a trained detective.  Plus I followed the trail of scotch.” </p><p> </p><p>He grinned, then took a sip of his water.  “Sit!” he told her, slapping the bar seat next to him.  “Drink! Smile.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked at him cynically for a moment, then eased herself onto the bar stool and ordered a glass of wine.  A moment later she shared with him the information he had already assumed, that Jones only stole from men.  His demeanor seemed to confuse her.  “You asked us to find women,” she repeated, “We already thought he only stole from men!”</p><p> </p><p>“But now,” he leaned toward her and slapped the bar top, “Now we KNOW it.”  And he proceeded to lay out his plan to charge Jones with a hate crime.</p><p> </p><p>Olivia was shocked.  “So you’re going to try a gay man for raping other men because they’re gay?”</p><p> </p><p>Grinning again, he nodded once.  “Watch me.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Jeremy Jones was in his late twenties, the same age Rafael had been when he was starting his career in the Brooklyn ADA’s office.</p><p> </p><p>His first apartment had been a studio not far from his office, and he had filled it with yard sale furniture and the little bit he could glean from the room he’d rented during his law school days.  His mother and grandmother had come over one weekend shortly after he moved in and helped to set it up.  His mami had spent an extra twenty bucks to buy him a bedframe to get his old mattress and box spring off the floor and he didn’t fight her on it.  He figured it was probably time to sleep off the floor like an adult.</p><p> </p><p>His mother had questioned his budgeting choices almost immediately, wanting him to have a more comfortable place to live in exchange for less expensive suits.  But Rafael had seen for himself the difference that clothing made in the courtroom; he saw the difference in the respect given by the judge, jury, and colleagues.  And he was determined to make a name for himself.  Two months after he had moved into his studio, he bought himself his first Armani by combining his leftover salary, monies gifted to him upon graduation, and his last check from a summer job he’d had.  Slipping into that Armani suit made him feel invincible, and he knew instinctively his decision had been the right one.</p><p> </p><p>The hours in Brooklyn were long and left him with little time for anything else, which was just as well.  He didn’t have any romantic relationships to develop, nothing to get in the way of making a name for himself.  He was at his office so much that he kept an overnight bag in the small closet there.  And his drive paid off.  Over the years, he got bigger cases, and those came with bigger offices with bigger closets and more room for his designer suits.  </p><p> </p><p>There were times that he wished he had someone to come home to, to check in with, to take care of and be cared for.  For the most part, though, he stymied that wish by focusing on his job and, when that didn’t work, the occasional one-night stand.  He found that once he had a bit of scotch in him, it was easier to dismiss his worries and moral concerns about bringing a stranger into his bed.  </p><p> </p><p>Most of the bars he frequented at that time were the kind that Jones hit now, he realized.  Upper-middle class men, dressed in suits and on the way home from their office jobs, were stopping in for a drink to relax them, and possibly more.  Rafael had learned to recognize the married ones when he was in Brooklyn; they had a certain way they moved and a certain expression they wore, as though they were hiding an exciting, sly secret.  They were men he avoided when he was out.  He’d no interest in sleeping with someone who was committed to another person.  As much as he understood his own bisexuality, there was no way that he was going to help somebody else hide his.</p><p> </p><p>As he sat on his couch at home, reviewing his notes and jotting down questions, it occurred to him that he had a similar distaste for the victims as Jones did.  Coming out wasn’t easy for anyone, and he believed each person had the right to do that in his or her own time.  But hiding it from a partner?  He tried to imagine, then shook his head.  IN all honesty, his bisexuality probably played a big part in the fact he’d been single all these years.  From what he had seen of the world and from his own experiences, people had a hard time understanding and accepting bisexuality in their partners and in themselves, and he’d be damned if he was going to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.  It’s why these men in this case, these victims, frustrated him.  They were liars, lying to their families and friends, but at worst, to themselves.  It was challenging to garner sympathy for them, but they didn’t deserve the violence Jones had doled out.  Nobody did.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Jones had trophies.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, that’s how they had gotten him, the watch he’d given to his husband belonged to one of his victims’ wives.  As Jones was pulled out of the courtroom after spitting on his attorney, Rafael found himself feeling sorry for Minonna Ephron.  She’d tried her best and done right by her client.  Somebody commented that Rafael had been right, Jones hated gays, but Rafael shook his head.  “No,” he said, the truth hitting him in the moment, “he hates himself.”</p><p> </p><p>An hour later he found himself on a barstool in Forlini’s, drinking scotch and trying to will the memories away.</p><p> </p><p>“You okay for company?”  Olivia Benson was sliding onto the barstool next to him and motioned to the bartender.  “Cabernet,” she ordered, and he watched as she removed her coat and adjusted her phone.  She was strikingly beautiful, this woman, and more intelligent than the majority of people he spent time around.  She smelled like something floral and light, something that reminded him of sunshine.  Taking the wine glass from the bartender, she finally turned to face him.  “You did well,” she commented before taking a sip from her glass.</p><p> </p><p>“Mmm,” he responded, basically just to indicate he’d heard her comment, then took another sip of his scotch.  “He’s convicted.  That’s what’s important.”</p><p> </p><p>She hummed, then was quiet for a moment.  “You have problems with those victims too, don’t you?”  At his surprised look, she explained, “Nick.  He was really hard on them...blamed them for not being with their families.”  She shook her head.  “It’s not our business to judge or make moral evaluations.”</p><p> </p><p>He raised his eyebrows.  “You think I did that?”</p><p> </p><p>Putting her glass down, she shook her head again.  “No.  Not on the stand.  But I saw how you interacted, heard what you said and how you said it...I guess I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where I’m coming from.”  He laughed softly, then finished his scotch.  “When I was in college, I was dating this girl...she was everything to me, you know?  You know, beautiful, smart, funny.  I fell and fell hard.”  He nodded to acknowledge the bartender’s refill of his scotch, then picked it up.  “But I felt like I owed it to her to be honest to her, honest about who I was, who I understood myself to be.  So before things got any more serious, I told her the truth, that I was bisexual.  But that didn’t change my feelings for her.  I was in love with <em> her. </em>  All it meant was I just felt attraction toward a wider group of people than she did.  She nodded as though she understood, kissed me and told me she needed time to think.”  He took a long drink of scotch.  “Next day I go to class and this guy I barely know says, ‘Hey Barba, I hear you’re a faggot.’  He tossed a Playgirl at me and told me maybe I’d find something more my speed in there.”  He met Olivia’s eyes, and found her expression to be somber.  “That was how I ‘came out’ in college, but I don’t regret it.  Can you imagine if I’d married her?  If I ended up building a life surrounded by people who think like that?  My biggest mistake was not telling her sooner.”  He shook his head.  “It’s hard to see men who don’t have the courage to live congruently, to be who they are and not hide in the shadows.  Some of us are out here, living the consequences, no matter what they are.”</p><p> </p><p>He watched as Liv rested her head in her hand, elbow on the bar.  “You didn’t deserve that, Barba,” she said softly.  “That’s horrific, and I can only imagine how betrayed you must have felt.  Did you ever tell her, confront her?”</p><p> </p><p>He shook his head.  “No.  I tried to contact her a couple of times, but then I realized I was better off without her.  You know, it’s not always easy to be who you are.  You’re not guaranteed acceptance.  But we aren’t going to get it if we keep hanging out in the shadows and not demanding it.”</p><p> </p><p>Rafael felt her hand cover his and squeeze.  Her eyes were teary, and he suddenly realized that her empathy didn’t start and stop with victims.  “Thank you for sharing with me who you are,” she said quietly.  “I know you don’t hide it.  Anyone who’s seen how you dress and had a conversation with you knows you don’t hide yourself...but, I mean, your sexuality and this particular challenge...thank you for telling me that.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled.  “You’re welcome.”  Squeezing her hand back, he said, “So I’m assuming you haven’t had the same type of experiences?  Nobody calling you a lesbian in the middle of class?”</p><p> </p><p>They both chuckled as she cocked an eyebrow.  “No, not exactly.  I mean, since we’re sharing, I’ve had experiences, but I consider myself straight.”  She blushed suddenly.  “TMI, huh?  Probably enough wine tonight.  Time to stop.”  She brought the glass to her lips and finished it.</p><p> </p><p>Patting her hand gently, he said, “Don’t worry.  Your status is safe with me.”  He motioned to the bartender.  “Add hers to my tab, please, and I’m ready to cash out.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Barba.”  Liv began to pull her coat back on.  “Are you sure you want to pay for that?”</p><p> </p><p>Rafael nodded, pulling out his card.  “You can get it next time.”  Handing the card to the bartender, he quirked an eye at her.  “I’m assuming there will be a next time, considering how you keep following me here.”</p><p> </p><p>She laughed again.  “Well, I AM a detective.  If I couldn’t find you, they might take my shield away.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, we can’t have that.”  He took his card back and pulled his own jacket on, then followed her out to the street.  “Detective, thank you for the conversation.  It really was helpful tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiled, and his tipsy brain made note of how lovely it was.  Maybe he could make her smile again.  She really was strikingly beautiful.  Way out of his league-type beautiful.  Like Bo Derek beautiful, and he was Dudley Moore.  Or Princess Fiona, pre-metamorphosis, and he was Shrek.  Or--</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad,” she was saying, wrapping her coat more tightly around her.  “You’ll get home okay from here?  Not too tipsy?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m good,” he grinned at her.  “And you?”</p><p> </p><p>She stepped toward a cab that had just pulled up to the curb.  “I’m taking this one.  Goodnight, counselor.  See you on Monday.”</p><p> </p><p>“Goodnight, detective.”  He turned to head home.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He was licking and sucking on her earlobe.  He could feel her body beneath his, soft and pliant, and her moans as he touched her.  Her hands were stroking up and down the skin of his back.  He couldn’t remember a time he had wanted anyone this much.  He was settling his body on top of hers, between her legs, and she was whispering to him, “Rafael, please...I need you…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The blare of a passing fire engine jerked him awake, his cock swollen and aching.  He collapsed back in the bed, thinking about what he had told her, that it’s not always easy to be who you are.</p><p> </p><p>And he wondered who she was, and when he would find out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Funny Valentine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Misha Green's case causes Rafael to reflect upon his own first love, Lauren Sullivan.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello!  This chapter corresponds with season 14, episode 16 "Funny Valentine".</p><p>You may notice that some of the dialogue in these stories is paraphrased from the episode instead of being taken word for word.  I'd prefer to have it be exact, but I currently don't have access to the episodes, so I'm relying the best I can on memory.  IF I get something really wrong, please feel free to let me know!</p><p>Thanks so much for reading!  Kudos and comments are super appreciated as well!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When he was seventeen years old, Rafael thought he had found his reason for living.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She came in the package of a petite dark-haired girl with doe eyes who lived three miles away and attended a private school for the smart, rich, and talented.  He was at a debate team competition and saw her facing him with her teammates, shy smile directed toward him as their eyes met.  He smiled back, thinking she was cute, and he hoped she wasn’t as sensitive as she looked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she opened her mouth and decimated his team.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lauren Sullivan may not have been a knockout beauty, but she was smarter than any girl he’d ever met, of that he was sure.  And she had goals.  She was only applying to ivy-league schools because that was what she expected of herself, and he had no doubt she’d be choosing between offers from several.  He’d been busting his ass to make his applications look as sharp as possible, and she understood that, better than anyone.  They began hanging out together at anything they could find to boost their applications--including several volunteer opportunities--and before long, he found himself falling head over heels in love for the first time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was perfect, he was convinced, and the first time he told her he loved her, she smiled at him and snuggled closer before murmuring “I love you too”.  They were in Central Park, finishing the cleanup from a volunteer event.  Her fingers tangled with his and they watched the sun go down that evening, and Rafael thought he could survive anything if Lauren was by his side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They dated all of senior year.  He managed to avoid bringing her to his house the majority of the time because of his dad, and they stayed away from her house most of the time because of hers.  Her dad  wasn’t crazy that his smart, lovely daughter was dating a kid from el barrio, and part of Rafael didn’t blame him.  Lauren deserved better, he often thought to himself, but then she’d say something that made him laugh and he’d push the thought away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He managed to save enough money from his part time job at a pizza shop to rent a hotel room on prom night, and they made love for the first time after sharing a bottle of cheap champagne and a couple burgers. They were clumsy virgins, nervous and excited, and finished quickly, but as far as Rafael was concerned, it had been perfect.  Lauren looked at him as though he hung the moon, and her kisses were sweeter than sugar.  His heart was incredibly full. And he thought, as he held her that night, he could live the rest of his life like this.  He could be happy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then graduation came, and Lauren got the opportunity to spend the summer traveling in Europe before she headed to Brown in the fall.  She paid for a hotel room for them one more time before she left, and they made love hungrily.  He felt needy, wanting to memorize her every taste, scent, feature.  She was crying softly when he went down on her for the first time, and her hands were in his hair, tugging as she came.  He moved quickly up to face her, kissing and shushing her, murmuring his love.  And he held her tightly against his chest, wiping lone tears from his face one at a time.  They promised to write, to call, to visit; he knew they would even though his friends had told him nobody ever did.  They would be different.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He got a postcard from Venice sometime during July, a photo of the canals.  Lauren said it was gorgeous, that he needed to see it, and she knew one day he would.  She’d always believed in him, he thought.  It was one of the things he loved so much about her.  He slipped the postcard in between the pages of his dictionary, knowing no one would find it there.  He had no address to write back to, and no phone number to call, but Lauren continued to live in his head every night, in fantasies and memories and dreams.  Sometimes he’d be working in the pizza shop and he’d wonder what she was doing or where she was.  Had she seen Paris yet?  Madrid?  And sometimes he’d fantasize that she’d walk into the pizza shop, home and missing him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t, and in August he was in the passenger seat of his mother’s car on his way to Harvard.  He never heard from her again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Misha Green was nineteen years old.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hit play on his speakers, her lovely voice filling the room, and pondered that fact again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d spent the better part of the last two weeks leaning on people to get a nineteen year old to press charges against her abusive, bigger star boyfriend..  Caleb was an asshole, for sure, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what Misha thought was so incredible about him.  From all accounts, she was on the verge of making a notable career for herself and didn’t need him.  But then, she was nineteen years old.  Dipping her toes in the pool of adulthood, he thought, pouring himself another cup of coffee as his phone rang.  He picked it up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Barba,” he answered, then took a sip of his coffee.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Barba, it’s Benson.  We’ve had an incident...Brass was shot and killed at the release party tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brass, Misha’s mentor, had been their biggest supporter in getting her to press domestic violence charges against her boyfriend Caleb. He sighed heavily.  “And Misha?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s alive,” Benson answered.  “She was right there when it happened, but denies seeing anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course she does,” he muttered.  “I’m at a loss here.  Any thoughts on how to get her to be truthful?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s in the hospital now.  But I’m thinking we give her a couple of days, then maybe convince her to come by your office for something...maybe if the two of us talk with her together, away from the squad room and Caleb and her managers and everyone else, we might get through?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”  He flipped through his notes, then laid them down.  “Count me in.  Just tell me when to expect you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Will do.  Thanks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hung up with Benson and leaned back against the couch.  He could only hope the death of her mentor Brass, a man she clearly adored, would be enough to convince Misha to testify honestly against Caleb.  Maybe that bullet would help her mature.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was feeling highly optimistic this morning.  Last night, he and Benson had worked magic on Misha.  She’d admitted that she had seen Caleb shoot Brass, and her testimony should seal the deal with the grand jury today.  He glanced to his right in time to see Benson come into view, heading toward him, coffee already in hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ready for a big day?” he asked, grinning at her as she took a long sip.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She nodded then.  “Yes.  We should be good.  I dropped her off at ten last night, and she knew to be here and ready to testify.  It’s just frustrating that it’s taken so long to get to this point.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She thinks she’s in love,” he said, and a sudden memory of kissing Lauren Sullivan appeared, causing him to smile.  “Didn’t you ever feel that way?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snickered.  “You mean where I’m in love with a guy and forget he murdered someone when he sends me flowers? No.  What, you have?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed lightly.  “Lauren Sullivan.  I was seventeen.  She could have massacred my entire family and I would have looked the other way.”  He didn’t mention that half his family wasn’t worth saving to begin with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were younger than Misha...seventeen--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Misha’s nineteen,” he countered. “That’s just a couple years older.  We see grown women who can’t do this, can’t testify against an abuser.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The reality of that statement couldn’t be refuted.  Feeling butterflies suddenly emerging in his gut again, he allowed himself to be distracted by the chill in the morning air and crossed the street with Benson, heading to the courthouse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was a burner cell.”  Rollins waved the phone in her hand around before setting it back on its holder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rafael was pissed.  Misha had done a complete one-eighty on her testimony, claiming she had only made her statement the day before because he and Benson had pressured her.  He knew in his gut that Caleb Bryant must have found a way to speak to the young woman.  He’d grown up with an abuser and knew how slick their words could be.  All the times his dad had convinced his mom to stay, to return, that things would be better.  And sure enough, it had taken the squad less than twenty minutes to track down the burner cell number that Caleb had used to call Misha.   And now somebody in the squad room was reading messages from twitter or insta or some social media, and the messages stated the obvious.  The two were off vacationing together, and supposedly madly in love.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So what next?”  Amaro asked.  Good question.  They needed a new strategy, and they needed it yesterday.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We wait,” Munch replied, face solemn, as though their work was done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he wasn’t done.  He wasn’t ready to give up on this.  “For what?” he asked irritably. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Benson turned to him.  “For the inevitable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was late arriving at his abuelita’s for dinner.  “Sorry,” he told her, kissing her quickly on the cheek before turning to his mami.  “Got hung up at work.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mother nodded toward the paper his abuelita was holding in her hand.  Misha Green’s photo was on the front page.  “I’m so sorry, mijo.  She’s the one who was supposed to testify for you a few weeks ago, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, she was,” he said, taking off his coat and hanging it up.  “Her boyfriend, the one who abused her, killed her.  Hopefully we’ll have better evidence this time around.”  He sat in the rocker next to the couch where his mother had settled as his abuelita shuffled over to him, newspaper turned to the obituaries.  Confused, he looked up to Abuelita.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tapped the paper.  “You knew her, yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nodded.  “I was prosecuting her case…” Then a photo and name caught his eye.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lauren Sullivan, 41, died on February 12, 2013 after a brave three-year battle with breast cancer.  Lauren was born in New York City to Douglas and Eileen Sullivan.  She attended the prestigious Trinity School, excelling in debate and science.  She spent a summer traveling in Europe before attending Brown University.  In 1997, she married her husband Chris Watley and began a family. Dr. Sullivan spent the majority of her life working toward a cure for cystic fibrosis.  Cystic fibrosis is a genetically inherited disease that impacts a person’s lungs and digestive system, making it increasingly difficult to breathe.  The condition is terminal.  Dr. Sullivan began her research in this field after her daughter Naomi was diagnosed with the illness upon birth.  She took a position as a Ph.D. Fellow with Seattle Children’s Hospital and stayed with the hospital until she was unable to work any longer.  She assisted in making great strides toward identifying different genetic markers of the disease.  Lauren is survived by her husband, Chris Watley, daughters Naomi and Ellen, son Stephen, and mother Eileen Sullivan.  Services will be held on Saturday, February 21st, at 11:00 a.m. at Oak Lake Christian Church in Seattle, WA.  In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakily lowered the paper.  Abuelita was watching him, her eyes soft and comforting.  He felt a knot in his throat and he wasn’t sure if it was for Misha, who couldn’t find her way out, or for his mother, who always came back, or for Lauren, who found happiness but had it stolen from her.  He chewed on his lip absently, staring at the photo of Lauren, doe eyes looking back at him, and for a second he was in that hotel room, wiping her tears away, wiping away his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I knew her.”</span>
</p>
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